"Thank you," I interrupt. "For letting me see this. The real you with your real family."
"Our family," he corrects. "You're part of this now. Mila gave you her grandmother's bracelet—that's basically a blood oath in Russian families."
I touch the silver links, still warm against my skin. "Is that what we are now? Family?"
"We're something." He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Something I don't have words for yet."
He kisses me. Gentle. His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones, and I melt into him.
"Stay," I whisper against his lips. "Just to sleep. I just—I don't want to be alone tonight."
He nods, smiling.
We curl up together on the cloud bed, fully clothed, his arm around my waist and my back against his chest. I can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, and for the first time since this nightmare started, I feel truly safe. Like I’m home.
"Goodnight, little wolf," he murmurs into my hair.
"Goodnight, Mikhail."
Tomorrow we go back to being fugitive criminals with a lot of things on our plates that we have to figure out how to solve. But tonight, we're just two people finding comfort in each other, surrounded by a family who accepts us despite everything.
And at this moment, that's enough.
Chapter twelve
The Bombshell
Mariana
The private gym in Alexei's estate is nicer than any police precinct facility I've ever used. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens, equipment that probably costs more than my former annual salary, and blessed silence at six in the morning.
We've been here for a few days. We keep working, we keep researching, and the rest of the time is Mikhail bonding with the kids and Mila, allowing himself to experience being part of a family and a normal family routine.
I'm happy for him, for them, but witnessing this isn't doing my muddled mind any favors.
That's why I come here. I need this. Need the burn in my muscles, the sweat, the mindless repetition of movement. Need something to stop me from thinking about how Mikhail looks holding baby Anya, or how his arm feels around me all night, or how I woke up every morning wrapped around him like a vine.
Focus on the workout, not on feelings you can't afford.
I push through another set of burpees, my body responding with the muscle memory of years of training. This is familiar. This makes sense. Unlike everything else in my life right now.
The gym door opens, and Mikhail walks in wearing workout pants and nothing else.
Jesus Christ.
I've seen him shirtless before, but with the morning light through the windows it hits different. Every scar tells a story. Every line of muscle speaks to years of discipline. The man is forty-two and built like someone half his age, all controlled power and dangerous grace.
"You are here again." he says, grabbing a towel.
"Needed to move." I drop into a plank, holding it while trying not to watch him stretch. Failing miserably. "Helps me think."
"What are you thinking about?"
You. All the fucking time. You and how I'm in so deep with you I might drown.
"Harrison," I lie. "In how to articulate and use everything we have against him so far."
He moves to the weight rack, and I definitely don't watch the way his back muscles flex. "Alexei's contacts in Moscow confirmed three more names. Russian wives who disappeared from US protection."
